


Comfortable Being the Dessert

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Clothed Sex, Companionable Snark, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hand Jobs, Humour, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Naked Male Clothed Male, Nipple Play, No Angst, Oddly Enough No Actual Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Size Difference, Smut, Smut 4 Smut Treat, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: "I beg your pardon," he says affronted, "but I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm the one suffering unjustly."To prove his point, he lets the shirt go to fall where it may, predictably finding it insists on hanging off him unattractively, baring one shoulder and his collarbone entirely.In which everything is assuredlynotJaskier's fault. At all. Nope.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 489
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Comfortable Being the Dessert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anticyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/gifts).



> Title from "Vampires in Love" by A Great Big Pile of Leaves.
> 
> ETA 04/26/2020: [my tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)

For all intents and purposes, this can hardly be counted as Jaskier's fault. Truly. No joke.

He hasn't run into Geralt during the better part of a year, their paths very clearly divergent, so of course it _must_ happen that he couldn't possibly fail to do so _exactly_ when enough _purely circumstantial_ evidence might lead the casual onlooker to make certain assumptions. Such as it being Jaskier's fault.

Which it is _not_.

Well. Mayhaps from a certain point of view.

A point of view Jaskier most certainly _does not_ share, thank you very much.

*

"Your monster thighs are entirely to blame," he pants wetly into Geralt's mouth, lips lingering against his for a breath longer before slipping apart. He doesn't recall kissing being quite so necessary to his survival as kissing Geralt has suddenly become over the last hour; but, then again, clearly nefarious potions are usually _not_ involved in his continued existence either, so there that.

Eyes narrowing, Geralt leans back to stare wordlessly. Jaskier feels only a little flustered under that inscrutable stare. Then Geralt scoffs, head shaking in mild annoyance, and Jaskier's shoulders relax again.

He cocks an eyebrow and straightens his back. "It's hardly my fault there's an unfair size difference at play here," he points out. Partly responsible for their current predicament, he might add—though he doesn't, in fact, say so, seeing as Geralt seems unwilling to entertain even _part_ of his argument here.

"Perhaps some of us should desist in yapping like a small dog," is what he gets back, almost offhand. Clearly _someone_ is having a bad day.

"I beg your pardon," he says affronted, "but I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm the one suffering unjustly."

To prove his point, he lets the shirt go to fall where it may, predictably finding it insists on hanging off him unattractively, baring one shoulder and his collarbone entirely. Eyes wide, he lifts his eyebrows as if to say, _See?_

But Geralt's not looking at his face, thus he doesn't seem to get the full impact of the eyebrows and the wide eyes and all that. He is, however, focused most intently on the parts of him revealed by his highly inappropriate attire. Which should doubly prove his point, given how his entire chest is one splotchy purple mess springing from about where his heart should be. Where his heart should _continue_ being, if Jaskier has any say in it whatsoever.

That in itself should be of utmost concern. And it would be, of course, to Jaskier himself first and foremost, were it not for the fact of his being in the throes of cooking alive due to a rather nasty lust potion. An unfairly targeted lust potion at that. Hardly Jaskier's fault _some people_ are exceedingly sensitive to certain melodies and lyrics and the like.

His senses and observational skills, however, are very fortunately _not_ affected, therefore it takes him the usual amount of time it would take him otherwise to figure out Geralt's being _oddly_ non-verbal.

"Hmm," Jaskier says in a very Geralt-like way. Which is enough to snap Geralt out of whatever stupor he was in to focus his eyes on Jaskier's in a rather dismantling sort of way. "Err," is the only available reply to that stare. Rather ineffectual, as it happens, for Geralt ignores it completely in order to lean back in, this time not for a kiss, but rather to nose his way around Jaskier's chest for a brief while before his lips finally part around a peaked nipple to nibble and suck at it almost idly.

Whimpering embarrassingly seems like the right response to that, as is clutching with trembling fingers at Geralt's clothed shoulders. Jaskier's trousers and smallclothes are already off, the first things to go once they reached the privacy of the room, and Geralt doesn't seem inclined to take any of his own clothing off, hence it seems of little concern that Jaskier should shrug his shirt completely off next, thus ensuring he ends up naked while sitting in Geralt's lap. His rather broad lap, consisting of a pair of the aforementioned monster thighs causing Jaskier's own to part deliriously close to his limit, the stretch delicious even as he knows that alone will have him sore the next day. Among other things he hopes they will be getting to soon enough.

"It occurs to me, _ah_ , that we should have been doing this ages ago," he comments faintly while Geralt switches from one nipple to the other. Truly, over a year of friendship wasted.

Geralt sighs, his breath on the wet peak causing a shiver to descend down Jaskier's back. "Shut up," he mumbles before returning to the task at hand.

Jaskier does. At least where words are concerned. Because everything else, as far as he's concerned, is fair game.

Even more so when Geralt finally decides he's had enough of Jaskier vaguely humping at his clothed thighs, and snakes a hand between them to grip at Jaskier's leaking cock. The pressure shouldn't be enough. It should be, moreover, too dry by half. But Jaskier cares little for any of that once Geralt's got a rhythm going, in due time smearing his pre-come around to make up for the lack of any other slick. Furthermore, Jaskier finds his knees and legs are insisting, without much input from his brain, on bouncing along with Geralt's palm pumping at his cock, which is a strange state of affairs, an odd strain he cannot seem to shake, not until Geralt's other hand grasps at a hip bone to help him rock back and forth more comfortably, dragging his balls and taint against Geralt thigh, a counterpoint to his palm stroking him incessantly.

When he comes, it's with Geralt's mouth back on his, sucking on Jaskier's tongue while he tries to hold on for dear life to Geralt's shoulders. He comes in streaks up his chest, which seemingly helps alleviate the purple there, though it does not remove it completely.

Forehead now resting against Geralt's own and panting raggedly, he manages to say, "I'll need another hand, I'm afraid." Which is an understatement, if anything.

But Geralt only hums vaguely before catching his lips into another kiss, fingers grazing the backs of his thighs interestedly.

Never mind whose fault it is when it turns out like this.


End file.
